


dinna leave me

by gotham_ruaidh



Series: Gotham Writes for Imagine Claire & Jamie [37]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 18:27:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6531163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotham_ruaidh/pseuds/gotham_ruaidh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original prompt: I would love a fic imagining Jamie, during Claire's surgery after having been shot in MOBY, remembering all the other times he almost lost her, and being super angsty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dinna leave me

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at [Imagine Claire & Jamie](http://imagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com/post/142354373067/i-would-love-a-fic-imagining-jamie-during) on tumblr

Denny had left - his work done, desperately needing a bath - and, despite his faith, a restorative whisky. He’d squeezed Jamie’s shoulder as he quietly exited the room, trying his best to impart some kind of strength.

Poor man had no idea that the source of Jamie’s strength lay nestled in blankets on a borrowed bed, chest rapidly rising and falling in shallow breaths, deep in an  uneasy sleep.

Jamie couldn’t bear to touch her - but he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Why? Why, after all this time, all these years, all the terrifying experiences they had shared on and off battlefields in Scotland and America - all the chances that had come and gone - had it been *her*? He had killed men in cold blood - at the bidding of his chief, his king, his clan, his generals. She patched men up - sought to undo the same actions he had done, to bring men away from death.

Even in the dim candlelight he saw her face sheened with sweat. He had to do something - had to comfort her, had to ease her excruciating pain. Pain she was in because of him. Because of the stupid, idiotic choice he’d made to play the general, to join yet another army, fight yet another war, kill even more men - or lead young, trusting men to their deaths.

Quietly he rose and softly crossed the eight creaky floorboards that separated him from his heart. Dipping a handkerchief in the basin of fresh water Denny had thoughtfully left behind, he gently dabbed at Claire’s forehead, then rolled up the handkerchief and lay it horizontally across her sweaty brow.

Was it a fever? Oh God, he hoped not. Or was she just warm? The air in the room was so damned *still*…

Even near death, she was still the most beautiful woman - the most beautiful creature - he’d ever seen, his children and grandchildren included. Surely God would not rob life from such a wonder of creation…

He hadn’t before. Not all the times when she’d been near death - most of which, he realized with a wince, were because of him.

That terrible time when they lost Faith - she said that it would have happened even if he hadn’t been so full of stupid pride, but he disagreed. She had almost died, because of him. He so regretted he had been such a coward and hadn’t been by her side through her healing. As always, he felt a pang of regret knifing through his heart that he had never seen - never held - the silent wonder of his first daughter.

The time she had killed her heart, when he sent her back to the Englishman. She was ill - from malnourishment in the final, desperate days of the Rising, and from the passage through the stones, and then the morning sickness from carrying Brianna. The thought of being back with Randall had made her physically ill. Because of him.

The time she had broken her leg on that ship which had taken them to Georgia. It had been more of an annoyance, but she’d been bedridden. Because of him.

The time she had been abducted, and abused, and raped. Because of him - his position on the Ridge, and his decision to make whisky.

The time she had lain so ill, her hair shorn in punishment, because of Malva. Because of him - because Malva wanted him. Wanted his power, his position.

And now. She lay, panting, sweating, in so much pain, because of him.

He couldn’t bear looking at her face any longer - so he softly, tenderly took her hand, shocked at the clamminess.

His big, blunt thumb traced the deep grooves of her palm. It reminded him of that fortune-teller he’d met in that Paris taven, so many lifetimes ago.

Nine times, she had said. You will die nine times before you lie in your grave.

And how many times had he died? There was when he had the smallpox as a lad - the same fever that had killed Willie. Then when he was flogged at Fort William. Then when Dougal had brained him with the ax. Then Wentworth. Then Culloden. Then when he was flogged at Ardsmuir - but that didna really count, as it hadn’t been as terrible. Then when Laoghaire had shot him. Then when he’d been bitten by the snake. Then - well, maybe this one didna count as well, but the time when Claire thought he’d died at sea, and had married John Grey.

Seven times, then. To Claire’s six.

They were one flesh. They had died thirteen times.

By that arithmetic, one of them was already dead.

Not her. Please, God - not her.

His tears dropped soundlessly on their joined palms as he prayed fervently, desperately, pleadingly, hoping that that damned gypsy had been wrong.


End file.
